if he’d attempted to get a license?”
“Not as far as I can tell. He kept a spreadsheet, kept his money off the books, but kept a personal record. Women only for the sex. And some were fine with paying him. Others, generally younger than the willing ones, some of them married, he lured in, dosed, raped, then blackmailed.”
“He’d never have gotten through the training or the psych tests to get a license, not in New York. Not even street level if he’d been screened. What you’re describing, to me, is someone who felt no real connection to the receiver. It’s a business transaction, of course, but an intimate one that requires, at least on the higher levels, some finesse, some care and considerable training to handle various needs and situations. Above all, there has to be trust in the provider. A man like this would never have been able to gain real trust. You’ve spoken with Mira?”
“Yeah, and this is all running along her lines and my own. But you’ve been in the life, and now you treat people for sex stuff.”
Nodding, Charles sipped the frothy wine. “Do you suspect one of the women he used?”
“Maybe. Maybe. It feels like, if that’s the case, okay, you bash him in the head a couple times on impulse. That’s how he bought it. But then if you’re going to add a flourish, and the killer added one, wouldn’t you cut off his balls, or jab the knife in his groin—something that relates?”
“First, let me say: Ouch. They stabbed him after—so you’re thinking it might have been a jealous partner of one of the women, or one of the people—male or female—he blackmailed?”
“Maybe. Likely. I’m gathering information.”
“What sort of flourish, if you can tell me?”
“Stabbed. His own kitchen knife.”
“I meant where was he stabbed?”
“In the chest.”
“The heart?”
“Not exactly. It was more . . . oh. The heart? Symbolically, you’re thinking.”
“Some receivers fall in love. It’s a good LC’s job to walk the line between trust and affection, even a touch of infatuation, and love. A client who falls in love is dangerous, to the LC, to themselves. A knife through the heart?”
He drank again, shook his head. “I’m no cop, so I can’t say, and imagine you see plenty who’ve been stabbed in that area without any love gained or lost, but . . .”
“Yeah, but. Something else to think about. I appreciate it.”
“Absolutely anytime.” He rose, took her hand to walk out with her.
“You and Louise still look pretty shiny.”
“I feel pretty shiny. Marriage is an adventure. And a comfort.”
For some, Eve thought. For others? She thought of Quigley and Copley. For others, maybe a competition.
The music rolled now, and the ballroom throbbed with it, and with people. So many, Eve realized, had arrived in the time she’d been in the salon.
She spotted Feeney—wearing not a monkey suit but a black one she knew he kept for memorials and funerals—by one of the bars chewing the fat with Jenkinson. And Nadine, wearing ice-pick silver, dancing with the damn-near seven-foot Crack. The ace reporter and the sex-club owner looked to be having a hell of a good time.
She’d have to get Nadine in the salon, give out that gift.
And there was Mira and the truly adorable Mr. Mira sitting at one of the tables laughing with Commander and Mrs. Whitney. She probably had to go over there, say something. But she rarely saw her commander yucking it up, so she’d just wait on that.
“And there you are.”
She turned to Roarke. “Yeah, right here. I guess you know Peabody liked the coat.”
“There’s little more satisfying about giving than in seeing the receiver so genuinely happy.”
“Ha, that slides along with my quick talk with Charles about sex. Case-related sex.”
“Naturally.”
“Plus I wanted to give Louise her thing. I need to get Mira and Nadine and the others to give those things. Then I’ll be done.”
“And if you take a few moments to brainstorm—case-related? I’m fine with it. As long as you dance with me.”
“But—”
The music had changed, turned slow, romantic, a little dreamy. Still, she always felt so damn awkward dancing in public. He gathered her in, circled with her, laughed into her eyes.
“You have such interesting areas of modesty. Couples routinely hold each other when they dance slow.”
“Yeah, maybe, but I bet not that many of them have their commanding officer watching.”
“A dance. I’m not taking off your clothes, Eve.”
“I bet you are in your mind.”
“Well, I am now, so thanks for the idea.”
When she